


Life is in the Minding

by stepantrofimovic



Series: how clear, how lovely bright [2]
Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Episode Tag, Episode: s05e06 Icarus, Everything Hurts, Father-Daughter Relationship, Gen, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-12
Updated: 2018-03-12
Packaged: 2019-03-30 14:35:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13953669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stepantrofimovic/pseuds/stepantrofimovic
Summary: He’s an old man, and he’s tired. His letter of resignation is still fresh on the study table, typed up carefully on too shaky fingers with the aid of his old typewriter.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is entirely Bright-centric, I’m afraid. At some point I may be able to write something about this episode from Trewlove’s POV, but not today.

‘Oh, dear, I hope it is not I who have made you cry.  
You don’t mind? You don’t mind when I make you cry?  
Oh, Miss Burton, you must try to mind a little. Life is in the minding.’

[Tom Stoppard, _The Invention of Love_ ]

 

“What’s going on? All the driver would say was I had to come back to the station.”

She already knows, of course. As they all know, when they receive that call, when they open the door late at night to find colleagues at their doorstep.

Still, she asks. “Morse?” Bright doesn’t have to look at Morse to know that the man’s face is all the confirmation Trewlove needs.

“No,” she says – begs. In the blink of an eye, her usual steadiness dissolves, until there’s nothing of it left. As she walks away, her entire body shakes.

They all stare after her as she leaves. As long as they’re only looking at her, he’s safe.

In the end, Strange is the first to turn towards him. His gaze alone is enough to get him moving.

But he’s an old man, with lungs tired by years of smoking and nerves. She’s a physically fit young woman, in a heightened emotional state, and she has an advantage on him. She’s already turning the corner when he comes out of the station, and he knows then that he’s not going to catch up with her.

He still runs. His legs don’t even carry him for the space of two street lamps.

He doesn’t call after her. He waits there, half crouching forward, hands on his knees, until he’s caught his breath enough to start walking back. As he does, he opens his jacket.

When he walks back in, he finds Thursday has retrieved a bottle of whiskey from somewhere. Strange stares as he passes him a glass, but no one says anything.

***

Morse is hurt, and like any wounded animal, is looking for something to lash out at. All the better if the target of his ire can bleed.

Bright has seen enough wounded animals in his life to mind this one too much.

Besides, he’s selfish. He’s an old man, and he’s tired. His letter of resignation is still fresh on the study table, typed up carefully on too shaky fingers with the aid of his old typewriter.

“We will mourn him,” he says, and he can feel Morse’s hatred consolidating.

His last act this morning was approving Trewlove’s request for transfer. He had to pause before he finally added the note of recommendation that he had written so many months previous to this.

It’s the Yard. It will be tough, but she will do amazingly. She will do great things.

They shall all miss her.

It’s what he tells her the next day, as he shakes her hand for the last time. “I don’t suppose there’s anything one can say,” he adds. He doesn’t say, _anything I can say_. “I’m so frightfully sorry.”

She has tears in her eyes, but her hand is steady again. “Thank you,” she says, “for always looking out for me.”

“It has been a privilege.”

The pain deep in his chest is just his ulcer, and his old heart.


	2. Chapter 2

It’s been three months since Division received his letter. The house has never been tidier, or the furniture more spotless. The garden is flourishing, as much as the early winter frost will permit. The leaves have been racked to perfection.

Mrs Bright is still out for most of the day. The bridge, the societies, the charity work. Upstanding. Mr Bright goes out to buy groceries. Gardening tools, sometimes.

He still goes to dine at Chez André once a week, on Tuesdays. He doesn’t know when he’s going to stop, but he doesn’t think it will be too long.

It’s a Tuesday night, and he comes back to find Mrs Bright in the sitting room, reading a book whose title he can’t see. Tuesdays are the only evenings she comes home early. She still stays up until well after he’s gone to bed, of course.

He used to wait for her to join him upstairs before he let himself fall asleep. It’s been years since he last did that, but lately, he’s found himself wanting to do it again.

It doesn’t matter, of course. They never talk anyway, and the bed is wide enough to prevent even the risk of them touching in their sleep.

“Someone phoned while you were out,” Mrs Bright says. He stops on the first step to the bedroom, his hand gripping the banister too tightly.

“A young woman. She said she was a coll– a subordinate of yours, back at Cowley Station.”

He tries to catch his breath and fails. He doesn’t turn around to check the expression on Mrs Bright’s face.

“She seemed very polite. Good accent, well educated. We had a bit of a chat, now that I think about it. I don’t know why you never told me about her, when you were still working.”

He turns around then, carefully taking one step down on knees that have gone unsteady with relief and something else. “Did she say she was going to call again?” He doesn’t ask when. His whole face is too warm, the lit stove making the air in the room feel stifling.

Mrs Bright leans forward to pick up a piece of paper from the coffee table. “She left her number. Says she is busy during the day, but after dinner is usually a good time. Unless there’s a case, of course.”

His hand is shaking so much he can barely grab a hold of the paper. The number scrawled on it has a London extension. “Of course.”

***

She’s wearing her orange jumper, the one with the high neck, but unlike when she visited him in the hospital, her hair is tied up in the same simple bun she wears at work. She looks – tired, with deep circles around her eyes, but not unhappy. Determined. Steady.

He has missed that look.

“Come in,” he says, and his voice only trembles a little. “I’m afraid Mrs Bright is not home at the moment – the Historic Churches Trust, you see –, but she did promise to join us for tea.”

“It will be a pleasure to meet her,” Trewlove says, and Bright has the sudden urge to turn away, hide his expression.

She drove here, a new car. She tucks away a pair of gloves into her purse.

“Can I get you anything to drink? Water? Or perhaps you’d prefer something stronger?”

“A glass of water would be enough for now, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course. I’ll fetch one for both of us.”

When he comes back from the kitchen, he finds Trewlove studying one of the pictures on the bookshelf. He doesn’t have to move closer to know which one it is.

“That is Dulcie. She was our daughter. Many years ago. The tropics, you see.”

He doesn’t look at her as he sits down. This is the part when people shake their heads, let their lips grow thin and their eyes sad, and cast around frantically for a new subject. He does not need to look at her for this part.

He can still hear her settle into the armchair opposite him. She leans forward, just a bit, but enough to be in his peripheral vision.

“Dulcie,” Trewlove echoes, a smile in her voice, and no one but Bright himself has said that name in so many years.

“She looks happy. In the picture.”

She was, Bright thinks. She got to ride a horse for the photograph, and her mother wasn’t even going to be angry at her for ruining her dress.

“What was she like?” Trewlove asks. “Tell me about her.”

**Author's Note:**

> I’m currently on Tumblr under [@proudbright](http://proudbright.tumblr.com/), rather than my usual URL.


End file.
